


The Golden House of Finarfin and their tales.

by LadySpearWife



Series: People lost [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alqualondë, Angst, Brother-Sister Relationships, Canonical Character Death, Character Analysis, Character Death, Character Study, Childhood Memories, Drama in Nargothrond, Elf/Human Relationship(s), Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everything is Beautiful and Everything Hurts, F/F, F/M, Family Bonding, Family Drama, Family Dynamics, Family Feels, Family Issues, Family Member Death, Family Reunions, Father-Daughter Relationship, Father-Son Relationship, Female Friendship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Kinslaying, M/M, Major Character, Minor Canonical Character(s), Minor Character Death, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Mother-Son Relationship, Nargothrond, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War of Wrath, Reunions, War of Wrath, Women Being Awesome, Women In Power
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-03-26 14:27:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13859634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadySpearWife/pseuds/LadySpearWife
Summary: We're the stories told about us, but many things about the House of Finarfin were lost: they were transformed in martyrs and leaders and myths, and so the real people were lost.Until this day.





	1. Summary

_**I'm taking sugestions to add more chapters to this list until I reach 30 chapters!** _

Chapter 1: summary.

Chapter 2: Olwë reunites with Finrod in Alqualondë two centuries of the War.

Chapter 3: Túrin and Finduilas talk about ancient legends.

Chapter 4: Aegnor dies to buy the refugees of the House of Bëor some time.

Chapter 5: Galadriel thinks about past, present and future.

Chapter 6: Before Angrod and Edhellos part, Eärwen gives them advice.

Chapter 7: Gil-Galad retrieves Celebrimbor’s body from Sauron’s hosts.

Chapter 8: A messenger comes to bring the news of Nargothrond’s fall to Gil-Galad.

Chapter 9: The children of Finarfin share a tent in the Helcaraxë.

Chapter 10: Finrod remembers all the mortals who made a difference in his life.

Chapter 11: Celeborn and Celebrían listen to Galadriel’s stories.

Chapter 12: Finarfin meets his granddaughter in the Gardens of Estë.

Chapter 13: Orodreth reads Maedhros’ letters and burns them all.

Chapter 14: How Lúthien, Nellas, Nimloth and Melian remember Finarfin’s children.

Chapter 15: Edhellos never liked Orodreth’s wife that much, but she can’t deny her bravery.

Chapter 16: Angrod lives for more seventeen days after his brother dies.

Chapter 17: The War of Wrath, as told by Ingwion and Finarfin.

Chapter 18: The repercussions of the Noldor-Teleri match in the House of Finwë.

Chapter 19: Círdan sends letters to Galadriel to tell her about his wards.


	2. the echo of our sorrow is heard through the sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Olwë sees his grandson again after he's rembodied.

Olwë had never seen a man as tired and pitiable as Findaráto after he returned from the dead. His grandson was the first to come back from the Halls of Mandos, the fleeting shadow of a bright spirit and terrified, painfully terrified. The War had ended two centuries ago, so many hardened, grim Noldor had graced his domains to apologize, pairs and pairs of stormy eyes glimmering with dreaded feeling unknown; and yet none possessed the same helplessness, shock and terror.

“My boy,” he greeted enthusiastically. After seven hundred centuries of thinking, Olwë accepted that it was impossible to hate Eärwen and Arafinwë’s line for their people’s mistakes, “it’s been a long time! Come here, we have many stories to share.”

Findaráto, to his credit, came. Left his parents and beloved behind with his head held high and walked as a king would walk, all calculated striding and even more calculated swagger. His eyes, however, once so bright and curious as a child’s, were low, fixed on the ground, avoiding everyone and everything, almost hidden by thick, carelessly and barely brushed golden locks. He was, of course, frightened, though greater dangers had found his way through the First Age.

“It’s an honor for me to be welcomed in your halls, King Olwë,” he said without looking up, the same soft voice now colored with regrets and pain, so much pain.

Eärwen, looking strained, sighed quietly, sadness written on her face and a certain miserable unsureness shining on her eyes. Amarië stared with a disturbing acuity; perhaps daring him to judge a grandson that became a shell, perhaps begging him to not do such. It was his son-in-law, Arafinwë who wasn’t half as merciful as the tales commented and only calm when compared to his blazing family, the only one with courage enough to mouth _broken_ and not a single emotion crossed his fair face.

It was the truth, harsh and terrible as it was: war and its consequences shattered Findaráto until he was a construction of not so forgotten shards and bloodstained memories. Or maybe it was death, who could dare to guess? In the end, hardly anything like this kind of thought mattered. His daughter’s precious child had returned from the dead and no one knew when the other ones would, so Olwë grinned merrily, hid all the melancholic truths and raised a hand to rest on his stiff shoulder.

“Shall I call you King Felagund, then? Be good, you’re my grandson and I have…” but he cut himself when Findaráto flinched like a wounded animal and stared at the terrified eyes that suddenly were looking back, lit with fear and some other terrible feeling. In a matter of seconds, his hand had been brushed over with a violence that could only remind war and the boy, Valar bless him, was trembling miserably, as if suddenly it was those dreadful lands across the sea again.

“I beg your pardon, grandfather.” He simply, emotionlessly whispered, fixing his gaze on the ground again, quiet and haunted. After that, Findaráto didn’t speak again.


	3. The ancient melody does not see us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the safety of Nargothrond, Finduilas and Túrin talk about legendary people and legendary families.

“It’s strange, isn’t it? Almost tragical as well,” Finduilas said suddenly, putting her half-finished needlework aside. The silence in the room made her voice echo, but Gwindor didn’t stir, sleeping like he hadn’t slept in months.

Túrin stared her curiously, letting his always fleeting eyes find hers for the first time in many hours and ask the question hanging heavily on the too still air, watching every little detail of nervousness and sadness. She grimaced slightly with this and then smoothed her green skirts though they were completely unspoiled, looking both ancient and young while doing such. In one strike, the lighthearted aura of the afternoon was killed, and she should’ve kept her mouth shut, but now it was done.

“How we only remember the most important, most glorious parts of a person-legend, but never the little steps that took them there.”

Finduilas’ words repeated themselves in the deep, unsettling quietness. Túrin shivered and tried to repress the memories of father coming home with both him and Lalaith after a spring storm, all the three covered by mud; of mother somewhat smiling when he dressed properly and welcomed the guests with a charming, lordly grin that was never quite his; of well-humored aunt Rían elbowing his uncle in the ribs when he made yet another joke about her small stature. He failed, just as he commonly did.

Túrin didn’t want to think about Finduilas growing up hearing the stories of a family that would always be greater than her and greater than everyone else even though they were crumbling in the most spectacular ways. The imagined image of a little, golden-haired, lonely girl trying to learn all the names of people she’d never know just to impress her uncle came uninvited, however, and this was a thing so alike her he had to stop to remind himself that it was only his imagination.

“Legends are from where we take our strength and idols, not where we discover the painful truth”, he commented a few instants later, mouth full of poison, lies and thorns, “it’s like we don’t need the reality when the tale is so much better and fairer, no matter if the people are killed and remade in the process.”

Finduilas nodded briefly, brushing a careful finger against the needle, sharp eyes staring without a single emotion the great window. Gwindor shifted then and they silenced, only to sigh in half-relief and half-exasperation when he kept sleeping. Túrin just gave himself to the memories, too low-spirited to resist them, dwelling a little longer in that dull-colored place of youth and piercing pain throbbing in his heart. He couldn’t remember if Sabadal was right-handed or left-handed.

And couldn’t remember if Wind, his old dog, was light grey or dirty white.

“When I finally discovered how to speak my great-grandfather’s Quenya name right, I made my great-uncle fight against tears.” She began to talk and simply ignored her surroundings, the story taking too much space for her to care. “I said _Arafinwë Ingoldo_ with my high-pitched, childish voice, trying to show him how grown up and smart I was, and he spent ten minutes wrestling quiet demons inside his head and two hours telling me of his father and mother and family that didn’t cross the sea.”

“I don’t remember my mother smiling anymore. Nor my father’s hands and speech, nor my sister’s laughs, nor my land’s beauty.”

Finduilas didn’t smile kindly, neither did Túrin. They watched Gwindor instead.


	4. in the house of loyalty we are fostered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Aegnor falls, he falls with the memories of the House of Bëor burning in his mind.  
> (I just need to buy them time, he thinks.)

They’re lost, all lost and doomed.

Dorthonion is burning and burning and burning, and Aegnor – he’s given Quenya up so long ago, trying to run from crimes he committed and didn’t commit, the eternal balance of an Exile – knows that there’s no salvation. His brother clings to hope like a madman, so sure dawn would bring a better day and a happier end. Out of their family, Angaráto, stupidly noldorin Angaráto, is the only one who never learns, who ignores harshness, who is naïve and a natural optimistic.

It’s a scout that seals his destiny, desperate girl whose words recount how the Enemy’s troops are moving suspiciously through the plains, ignoring the brave Edain soldiers, who fight like beasts, like they’re possessed, like apocalypse has come, and coming to meet their refugees. Aegnor makes his choice in a second, no space for hesitation, regrets fleeing from him. He remembers them, resilient folk that lives and thrives among death, and swallows the fear, the guilt, the agony.

Their viciousness and happiness and resistance inspire him to move as swiftly and wildly as a forest fire, and when his best men and women come, lifeless eyes shining with the Trees’ light and mouths made to curse in battle, Aegnor is naked flame, fury and despair mingling in his agonized heart. Eldalótë, ever-ruthless and harsh, will damn him and his recklessness, and nonetheless now this has no importance: those people are not the Noldor, doomed to disappear from the land’s surface in time.

Angaráto believes in joy, trust and peace, the perfect and gallant prince who never gave his dreams of fairness up even after the world burned and froze. All the elven children in Dorthonion were blessed and cared for in his hands and they remember _him_ and everything _he_ has done to make a frontline merrier, but Aegnor is yet to forget how Bëor was the first mortal to draw a sword in the name of the Eldar, a fierce smile on his lips while the battle ragged and roared, and how his House never backed down.

So, when they charge, impossibly outnumbered and desperate to buy the refugees just a little of time, he uses their names as a mantra, remembering his small and bloodstained troop the reason of this massacre. Aegnor shouts and shouts and shouts until his throat is raw, until there’s no voice left, until the orcs and even darker creatures come to him as a deadly, endless wave. Even then, though, the thought of stopping, of running, refuses to come. He’s going to die _and_ save them.

 _Andreth, Andreth, Andreth, Andreth, Andreth_. Her name is his maddening strength, the force that moves his body, the motive behind his fire storm. Aegnor recalls her beautiful face and throws himself back into battle, roaring and turning into a scythe as the Enemy’s beings become little more than wheat. If they were not rooted in Dorthonion, frontline’s scions in their bloody own ways, maybe this could’ve ended up better. There’re only his memories now, his memories and her bones.

And then he falls, the insane bravery finally over: loses sword, shield and knives, fighting only with fists and madness until the orcs come, dozens and dozens of them to kill him. It runs in the family, this thrice-cursed recklessness and the will to spill blood with a fork if it’s necessary, and it just ends when his born is torn apart limb by limb in a spectacle of gore and violence. No peace for the Exiles, no rest of the damned: Mandos awaits, dreadful and grey and unchanging.

_Emeldir looks to the boy and frowns, “Valar bless his heart” she says, remembering Lord Aegnor and his sacrifice._


	5. thou shalt not meet a sweet release

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Galadriel wonders if she's fading.

The past haunted Galadriel in every corner of the world, even in those corners that didn’t exist anymore, and she clang to ancient names as one’d cling to air after almost drowning. There was no salvation from this subtle torture and the only option was to keep going on and on long after her limbs faltered, and her heart was overflowing with despair. Lothlórien offered no rest for its Lady, not like Irmo and Estë would, and wasn’t half as beautiful as the Gardens of Lórien, and everything was a memory.

Every small detail, every person, every catastrophe, had already happened before in greater, bloodier fashion. The present was no more than a dimmer repetition of the roads Galadriel walked a hundred times before, always pulling her towards an end that was cruel and exhaustive, and the past lived within her razor-sharp bones. Said bones sculpted by a thousand people that were out of reach, were as sharp and brittle as iron, carved into weapons by griefs long turned legend and cautionary tale.

Sometimes she felt so old.

It was impossible to understand how ancient elves could still be so optimistic, so untouched by this merciless sense of impotence. When it wasn’t Morgoth coming to massacre them with fire and terror, it was Sauron and his thrice-damned lies and loyalty; when the Silmarils finally went to their destinies, the Rings came and took every hope of peace. Galadriel didn’t let her stubborn grip on these lands falter for an instant, but she could feel the scream building itself on the back of her throat.

The names of a family and friends that she hadn’t seen since the Darkening and only a little after were burning her tongue and Celeborn couldn’t understand her timeless, exhausted mind. He lived in a world where time still had meaning, he was always running to a better future, he wasn’t raised in supreme greatness and then pushed into mere commonness. It felt like chocking and maybe it truly was; one day, people would find her fighting against numbness to breathe.

What was the future anyway? An even dimmer repetition of this madness and lack of power to change? A sharp-edged mind that kept becoming duller with time? Was Galadriel fading? The thought haunted her as much as the memories did, and she wished that Maglor – or should he call him Macalaurë? He used to cling to Quenya so desperately, the most brilliant of his works were on this language – was here to sing her a sad song and tell his tale. Had he faded in the end? It’d be a kinder fate just to throw himself into the sea and end with this sooner.

But when all was said, and all was done, she’d still be clinging insanely to everything she had and fighting until her teeth were bloody red, clawing her way to see all that hadn’t survived again and to save those who had. Galadriel wasn’t born to simply give up, more than ever because the worst of the endless fight was over. Her father would smirk, he was so sharp before a crown and probably sharper now, and her mother would have her lips pressed so tight and eyes sparkling of pride.

The past was always greater in her mind, the present was full of tasteless grayness, and the future held no interesting mystery, and yet she would present her claws and fangs to a fight that didn’t rest and didn’t have a sweet conclusion. No one, in this land or in brighter shores, had the power to put an end to Galadriel’s story with such cruel fate as slowly fading, as losing control over her own mind, and thus she would never rest, never back, never give up. It was wonderful.


	6. son of mine, daughter of mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> eärwen's not a woman for coldness, but making her son and daughter-in-law to leave aman requires it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lindai is the telerin word for the quenya lindar, which is how the teleri call themselves  
> please be a sweetie and leave a comment!

“Go with Arafinwë,” Eärwen ordered with arms crossed and expression tight.

Eldalótë could feel rather than see her husband staring his mother in shock. He didn’t understand _why_ she would even dare to command them to leave Aman. Neither did she, truly. The Lindai loved the pearl-white shores and the Valar almighty, and, however, one of their princess was telling her son and daughter-in-law to leave, to be part of a rebellion. It was beyond any reason, beyond any of Eärwen’s known thoughts.

They stared each other, the silence heavy between people who once talked freely, without hesitation or confusion. Nonetheless, it wasn’t, it couldn’t be, heavier than the lamp-lit darkness. Eldalótë had never felt so cold, so lonely and so blind before. This wasn’t the star-dotted sky of Tirion, the Calacirya and the Bay of Eldamar, but the real, unnerving and desperate absence of light. There was no warmth, no way to see save with weak candles or torches, no feeling of familiarity.

Maybe that was why Eärwen wanted them to leave with the rebels. This woeful, shadowy continent didn’t appear to be the Aman they knew, had known since their distant births. Beyond the sea were lands that weren’t home to sweet memories, were lands that held no past for them. Eldalótë could imagine how Endórë would be, and it filled her mind with curiosity, wonder, wanderlust. Maybe she was too Noldorin, but the rebellion felt righteous sometimes, especially when she truly thought.

“Mother?” Angaráto called, questions twirling on his face. His voice echoed in the room, loud and cracked. Her husband couldn’t seem to think, couldn’t seem to understand. Eldalótë almost reached to him, but restrained herself when he articulated, “mother, you can’t be serious. This rebellion is madness! Uncle Fëanáro is out of his mind, uncle Nolofinwë won’t back down even if Eru Ilúvitar come to him in person, aunt Lalwen wants to see the world burning and father hates the thought of leaving so much he’ll turn back in the first opportunity!”

It was all true, Eldalótë knew. If the Noldor were able to agree on one thing, and they weren’t, not ever, it was that the children of Finwë could be trusted to create chaos everywhere they stepped in. Eärwen didn’t appear the slightest touched by her son’s cutting words though, just as unmoving as the sky before a storm. It matched the imagine she had of Alqualondë. Angaráto still had more to say, but his mother raised a hand and he silenced, waiting for what she had to tell them.

It was so unnatural and strange of her. This coldness fit her aunt-in-law Anairë better, more effortlessly. Eärwen was loud, reckless laughs at the beach on sunset and mischievous eyes glistening with amusement, quick jokes and smart comments. None of this seriousness truly fit her. Eldalótë wished this chaos would just end soon enough, but it’d probably kick, wail and hiss for centuries, maybe millennia. Such thought was chilling, somewhat as sharp and deadly as a sword.

“The Noldor won’t be forgiven so easily, not on these lands,” she replied, stepping closer to them, a sad and fierce look on her eyes, “all who stay will need to rebuild relationships, not build new homes. One day, we who stayed behind will welcome you back with open arms and wide smiles, but it’ll take long, so long.”

Angaráto wanted to stay so desperately. To say with his mother, favorite aunt, grandmother, friends. His siblings were going, however. Witty though reckless Findaráto, brash and half mad Aicanáro, self-centered and ambitious Artanis. Findecáno, Turucáno, Írissë and Aracáno were going too. Eldalótë had fewer ties: out of her family, just a nephew and a brother would remain behind. Damn the whole situation, her father and mother were crossing the sea with Fëanáro!

“Go, _leave_ , I’ll have your father with me soon. I’m sure he’ll find an excuse to gather some of our people and back down,” Eärwen seemed to know too much. It was impossible to discover how: perhaps it was the strange water-visions of the Lindai, perhaps it was intuition, perhaps Arafinwë’s prophecies had something with it.

They took young Artaresto, the most important possessions and left.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ereinion cant link this decayed corpse to the brilliant smith.

Ereinion tries to not remember Celebrimbor while he was alive because surely linking the image between this _aberration_ and his ardent friend will break him.

He has an army to command, a war against a Maia to win, the hopes of elves heavy on his shoulders. Breaking isn’t an option, simply can’t be one. His soldiers burn to avenge the sacking of Eregion, the countless lives lost there, but seeing their king weep for a corpse, a decayed and unrecognizable corpse, is a steep too far. Ereinion knows this, fact carved into his bones and burned into his flesh, so he takes a deep breath, pretends to not see that abhorrent body and steels his posture.

 _Celebrimbor was foolish, Celebrimbor was paranoid, Celebrimbor was a Fëanorion, Celebrimbor was doomed, Celebrimbor is dead_. The chant threatens to open his head, strong and merciless a mace strike, and the scream is locked in his throat. He can’t afford being emotional right, doesn’t have the time or the place to let the tears flow and wash a little of the crunching sadness from his heart. This is a battlefield charred by a massacre and every spirit there burns. His weariness and misery have no space among the hardened.

The amusing part, Ereinion muses halfway to hysteria, is that people who carry their hatred towards the House of Fëanor so obviously mourn the man’s grandson. Or perhaps they mourn themselves, lost in yet another war. It’s difficult to know.

They’ve been taunted and defeated by this corpse, by what the ruin that was made of Celebrimbor means. Sauron raised no banner this time, not as in the War of Wrath, his most important host marching with the body of an elven lord chained to a pole. He can taste bitterness on his tongue as he remembers seeing his few soldiers that survived the Nirnaeth Arnoediad flinch at the sight. And yet, there’s no Gwindor of Nargothrond to attack and no child of the first Noldorin house is supposed to Gelmir.

Still, regardless of how many times Ereinion closes his eyes and tries to not recall his friend in life, the memories keep coming. Celebrimbor and Celeborn worrying at Celebrían’s birth, Celebrimbor and Galadriel looking so terribly old in their hushed conversations, Celebrimbor’s gray eyes filled by tears of despair and anger when people whispered about his begetting day gift to his High King. It keeps coming and he restrains a wretched sob before it rips him apart. No crying, not now.

Maybe someday, when this war is done, Ereinion will find strength in himself to sit down, remember everything and scream between horrible tears. Maybe when Elrond and Celeborn are safe, maybe when the strongest part of the Númenorean fleet arrive, maybe when he receives any kind of news from most of allies scattered across destroyed Eriador. Just not in front of his army, in front of Tar-Minastir’s army.

Suddenly, it feels too much to be that lonely among so many. There’re Celebrimbor’s friends there as well, those who didn’t spend the last six centuries skirting around a problem too heavy for letters and survived the Sack, but Ereinion doesn’t them, is not meant to be a part of them. The burden of Sauron’s disguise and the Rings of Power is too suffocating, the responsibility to never let the Fëanorian legacy rise again is his alone to bear in Lindon, and Valar forbid a king to cry for a tortured madman.

He analyzes the corpse, the rotten flesh torn away from yellow bones and the putrefied features, and realizes, or perhaps stops ignoring the pounding thought, that hardly Celebrimbor will be a hero, and that so few will know how afraid he was. _“Am I being just as paranoid as my grandfather? If I hadn’t chose a path so alike his, maybe people wouldn’t be so interested in noticing how similar we are. I can’t look back now: all I see is the ruin of our folk arriving sooner. I should’ve never trusted Annatar. What will I do, Ereinion?"_

He had hidden these letters once the first news of Eregion came. The kingdom destroyed, Ost-in-Edhil completely and finally ruined, the rumors about Celebrimbor’s capture and torture. It felt too much to have such harsh reminders so close.

Ereinion watches the body, broken and decayed for long moments, and then shouts “may your rest be short and peaceful, Tyelperinquar of line of Finwë!”


	8. and we fall (and fall and fall and fall, endless cycle of tragedy)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this isn't gil-galad's doom, but he's a noldo, he's always been doomed anyways

The messenger’s face is stiff and grim, and for a moment, too brief and too horrible, he can’t accept what her words mean. Nargothrond has been there for almost four centuries: it surely can stand through any storm, and nothing makes sense anymore because it means his father is dead, and so is sister, and so is an entire city.

Gil-Galad stays frozen, blinking and blinking and blinking. The messenger makes a rigid reverence and disappears, and he doesn’t care. There’re whispers filling the room and Círdan looks downright panicked, and he doesn’t care. It means that he’ll never have a chance to be a prince for his people, for his damned and hated people many would pointlessly add with a smirk; it means that he’ll never know his family half as well as it’s expected; it means the free peoples are a step closer to defeat.

Defeat, what a petty doom.

Valar be good, Gil-Galad can’t even breathe, just remains motionless and shocked and childishly angry, eyes full of wild tears and hands shaking. The weight of the bloody downfall is too heavy on his too young shoulders, and it’s not fault but the bitter taste poisons his mouth. He didn’t have the chance to be there, to fight and to do something. It was not his battle or his doom, not being a child taken away from the worst side of the danger. It stings now, stings and burns.

It’s all because Gil-Galad is a Noldo, regardless of how painfully Vanyarin his appearance is and how sharply Sindarin his manners are, and being a Noldo is accepting that every story ends up as a bloodstained, forsaken tragedy. There’s no mercy, no escaping, no happiness: just the fate that was promised at a beach long before his own mother was born. But when were the Valar fair in their actions?

 _Never_ , he wants to scream. Gil-Galad is a child of haunted and doomed Beleriand, has never seen and will never see the light of the Trees, wishes the Silmarili would simply vanish, and yet he’s a sinner as everyone, condemned to a path of corpses and death. This shouldn’t be his doom, this shouldn’t be Nargothrond’s fate.

It’s, of course. It always is.

He stares the wide room with glassy eyes, unable to articulate a single sentence before the desperate, grief-stricken Quendi that surround him. His mother isn’t there, and Gil-Galad, younger than he’s ever been allowed to be, wishes she were: out of his whole family, she’s the only one whose face is solid on his fleeting memories, the only one with a personality and a voice to match the melodic name. He’s lonely and scared and twice denied of his great-uncle and father’s realm, and she’s not there.

However, nevertheless, Nargothrond is no more, and how many lives were lost there? Thousands and thousands, he knows, and Gil-Galad is ashamed to admit that his heart is too caught up in his own tragedy to care about the details, about the tale. It’s not important and it feels like there’s water on his lungs. The free people walk to destruction and Morgoth looms at the horizon, sure as death for the mortals.

His father had promised, before he was sent to Círdan and the Falas, to take him to climb a mountain, and his sister had made a book of impossibly realistic paintings, so he wouldn’t forget their faces. Instead, Gil-Galad forgot their voices, their warmth, their smiles, their personalities. It’s not fair, but nothing seems to be fair now.

(He discovers later how king Orodreth of Nargothrond – Artaresto, truly, but when had tales cared about people? – valiantly tried to kill the dragon and was burned alive. He discovers later how princess Finduilas Faelivrin died impaled on a spear, waiting for a man who would never come, who was even more doomed than them. He discovers later how the ruins of what should’ve been his home were sacked. He discovers later how orcs and worse beasts feasted on corpses for months.)

But can he do? It’s not his war, not his tragedy, not his destiny.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gosh this hurt me


	9. of realms lost and children made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> or, gil-galad musing on the fall of nargothrong. and names, many names.

It’d been raining when the messenger arrived, this much he remembers. He was incredibly young when it happened, the fall of his father’s kingdom so distant from his small and safe world kissed by the waves and the salt. Mother hadn’t cried until they weren’t in the eyes of the crowd that had gathered around Círdan and the tired, ashen and miserable messenger anymore. But then, in the bedroom kindly granted to them, she sobbed and wept and screamed while holding him, always holding him.

Gil-Galad – or maybe it’s Rodnor, perhaps even Artanáro; sometimes the names confuse themselves, and he doesn’t understand why the Noldor want to be called by so many titles – doesn’t remember his father very well. He remembers, instead, the way his mother’s arms shook while she tried to silence herself for his sake alone. They say, always with this condescending tone filled by pity, his hair is as golden and bright as his and Finduilas’. Finduilas his elder and dead sister, lost in the Fall of Nargothrond.

He remembers neither of them very well, bitter truth be told. The messenger, gray-eyed, dark-haired and gaunt as a corpse but gifted with fire in her eyes, the perfect archetype of the Noldor in war, means more than them, his immediate family, because she had been there when he was older and able to not let his memories vanish with the wind and the ashes that sometimes came with it. He wonders, in the quietness of his room when his mother finally sleeps, what that says about the ashen and broken world he lives in, this ruined part of Beleriand in a ruined Endórë. Nothing good, surely.

There’d been few good things in the War. The people who crossed the sea, many as golden-headed as him and with a light in their eyes that reminded him of the rare ones who had called him _a descendent of Finarfin in every way_ , thought the War was only the last battles, the ones they saw. Gil-Galad – Rodnor, Artanáro, prince, king, boy, everything they need him to be – knew better. There’d always been a War somewhere, and there’d always be a War somewhere. _An old man’s wisdom_ , Círdan had called it once.

But Gil-Galad – Rodnor, Artanáro, son, brother, almost without family – is sure that it can’t be an old man’s wisdom, because he’d learnt it on his mother’s lap, still chubby and naïve as any child of his age. She’d whispered, her words broken by her shallow breaths and half sobs, that nothing could last forever and that the War always came to take, take and then take a little more. He’d been raised playing in the sand and never questioning himself if it were sand or ashes. He’d been raised hearing the cries of those who lost everything and were now doomed. They were all doomed, he’d learnt.

An arrogant man had doomed them all, many uttered angrily. Other spoke of many arrogant men and sometimes there were women who hadn’t been warned of the risks. Gil-Galad – Rodnor, Artanáro, heir of many dead people –, when the news came in the mouth of this half dead messenger, Noldorin in every little quirk and in the cadence of her accent so different from what he was used to, hadn’t know this. He knew that his mother was crying like she’d die soon, that Círdan was pained and sad, that many people in the city were afraid. When he was little, he blamed the messenger.

When he was older, he blamed Morgoth and wanted to ask his father if he knew his kingdom was doomed. Now, Gil-Galad – Rodnor, Artanáro, heir of many long dead people, a true king, sick for a home he will never have – wonders if his father and sister knew that resisting was useless but couldn’t stop because stopping meant complete destruction and even more pain. He wonders, in the nights he’s too tired for paperwork and too restless for rest, if the kings and queens of the destroyed realms hated their lot.

He hopes, thinking of the messenger and her exhausted words that still echo in his head – Nargothrond of the fair King Felagund has fallen into ashes, and the dragon Glaurung claims its ruins and its treasures –, they didn’t hate their lot. He doesn’t hate his, this small portion of what once was Beleriand and this people that are tired of the War. He’s one of the many kings of the Noldor, a successor of men with fire in their veins, some with more fire than others, and rebellion in their hearts.

It’s a decent legacy, considering they are all matter of song. Even his father and sister, long lost in a horrible sea of fire and betrayal and well-intentioned but catastrophic decisions. Gil-Galad can work with that heritage, he _can_.


End file.
